


Supernatural Story

by Hello_Spikey



Category: Angel: the Series, Supernatural
Genre: Body Horror, Gen, Mental Institutions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-05-10
Updated: 2012-07-18
Packaged: 2019-09-13 08:26:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16889061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hello_Spikey/pseuds/Hello_Spikey
Summary: Sam finds a new case: An insane asylum.  Privately owned, just outside of town.  People have been disappearing.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ash_carpenter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ash_carpenter/gifts).



> So, it's **ash_carpenter** 's birthday, and she is the most amazing person on the entire planet and my personal "Online BFF". She also subtly hinted (oh so terribly subtle. You could hardly tell.) that she wanted a fic for her birthday.
> 
> Well, I was an asshat working on a fluffy spuffy of all things and doing non-porn related things to boot, so I more than owe her. Since Ash is primarily writing SPN lately I bit the bullet and wrote my first ever SPN story just for her. Here it is!

Dean flopped onto the hotel bed, a beer in one hand and the remote in the other. “Well, that was a fat pile of nothing.”

“Don’t act too broken up about it.” Sam dropped his duffle by the door and looked significantly at his brother.

“Come on, Sammy. The ghost was a deaf cat with volume control issues. One wild goose chase means we have the day off.” Dean turned his attention to the TV. “Maybe the week. That bitch scratched the hell out of me.”

Sam sighed and sat down at the little table by the hotel room window. “There is something else,” he said, pulling out his laptop.

“What, a dog this time?”

Sam scowled bitchily and opened the laptop. “An insane asylum. Privately owned, just outside of town. People have been disappearing.”

Dean sat up. “You had a haunted nut house and you went after kitty whines-a-lot instead?”

“I thought they were related. Anyway, insane asylums inspire urban legends pretty much wherever they are. But while you were...”

“Manfully battling tiger-cat,” Dean supplied, batting his eyelashes.

“… handling the case,” Sam amended. “I found something else.” He turned the laptop screen toward Dean. “Five psychiatric patients in the past year were transferred to the facility. Each one lodged a protest or complaint. One requested to go to prison instead. Another committed suicide.”

“Something has the crazies scared.” Dean took a sip from his beer. “Could be just that they’re crazy.”

“But here’s the thing. I have records for a steady stream of transfer patients from other hospitals. Psychiatric wards are scarce and packed, but this hospital keeps taking new patients. And they haven’t released any.”

Dean swung his legs off the bed. “Crazies check in but they don’t check out.” He raised an eyebrow. “Seriously. You went with the ‘yowling ghost’ first?”

“Dean.”

Dean smiled. “Oh, I’ve barely begun giving you shit about that. Come on,” Dean tossed the remote on the bed with only a slight look of regret for his lost evening of lazing about. “Where do we start?”

***

The Cavalry Center for Mental Illness, as it was innocuously called, was an impenetrable fortress from which no information leaked. It was on a large parcel of private, wooded land, set back a good distance from the road so it wasn’t even visible to drivers-by. The closest neighbors either weren’t aware it was there or had nothing to say about it. The reception and PR staff were polite, friendly, and talked like well-trained expert court witnesses, turning every question back on itself and leaving Sam and Dean with no clue what was going on after a full day of question-asking.

That night they attempted a break-in. Dean was jimmying a lock when suddenly they found themselves in the woods, the well-lit building-side peeking through the trees about a hundred feet from them. “What the hell!” Dean looked down at the screwdriver in his hand, still bearing a fleck of white paint from the window sash.

Sam was standing at his side, just as he had been, flashlight raised. He shrugged. “Think we know it’s something supernatural now.”

“Ya think?” Dean spun the screwdriver around in his fist. “Let’s try another window.”

Three teleports into the woods later, they beat an anxious retreat.

***

Posing as a mental patient had some advantages since you’d have to be crazy to want to be mistaken for crazy. Sam was trying (and failing) to get hired on as a janitor, but Dean got into a mental hospital in an adjacent county in practically two seconds flat just by talking truthfully about his life.

Then he broke into the records room and got his ass transferred to Cavalry Center for Magic Bullshit.

Dean was watching for the first sign things weren’t 100% kosher at the hospital, and he didn’t have long to wait. The first orderly to look at him chuckled and shook his head knowingly.

Oh yeah, creeptastic.

As the third knowing leer slid greasily over him, Dean began to wonder if getting himself tied up in a straightjacket before coming in there, unarmed, was the smartest idea.

Still, all they did was the usual sort of processing, that special mental hospital mix of embarrassing and dull. The straight jacket came off and he was checked for lice, weighed, given a plastic bracelet and a hospital gown. He was put into a dull white room with wire mesh over the high-set window that threw hatch-mark shadows over a plain cot with white sheet. The only thing that made it different from a high-security prison cell was the hospital smell.

Dean could see why an inmate wanted to go to prison rather than here. That smell was nasty.

Dean was left to twiddle his thumbs long enough to start fearing that this was it – the roach motel for crazies. They pop you in a room and that’s it. He couldn’t reach the window even after breaking the bed off its floor-bolts and dragging it under. The light outside was fading.

Then the door opened.

Dean spun around from his position standing on the bed, one hand instinctively covering his ass. (Damn hospital gowns.)

The door closed immediately behind a tall, well-built man wearing a tidy business suit. His lips compressed in a smirk. “You’re not crazy,” he said, looking straight at Dean.

Dean raised an eyebrow and looked down and up, indicating with his glance the absurdity of his position, standing on a bed in a hospital gown. The man at the door just tucked his hands in his pants pockets and rocked back on his heels. Dean cleared his throat. “Uh… Angels want my body?”

“They’re like that,” the man replied, taking a lazy step forward. “Don’t worry, we angel-proofed ages ago. Pesky bastards.” He leaned his head to the side, looking up at Dean – and not too far up, at that.

Dean was pretty sure, pretty suddenly, that this dude was a demon, and that explained a lot. He looked around the room. No holy water, nothing to write with, no memory for exorcisms for shit. “Christo,” he said, “Uh… crap.”

The man smiled at him, eyes twinkling with amusement. “In nomine et virtute Domini Nostri Jesu Christi, eradicare et effugare… et cetra? You guys do love your Latin, don’t you? You do realize the ritual works just as well in English?”

Dean stopped looking for an escape route. “You’re shitting me.”

“Not really.” And a super-strong hand grasped Dean’s throat, lifting him off the bed.

Dean’s fingers clawed at the large hand, seeking purchase or just to support his weight. The man didn’t seem to mind. “My name’s Hamilton,” he said, and tossed Dean casually across the room. “You and I are going to spend a lot of time together.” He squatted down where Dean landed and stopped him in the process of scrambling to his feet with one hard hand on his shoulder. “You see, it’s not that I think I can get any useful information out of you, or that I care that you’re obviously investigating the, shall we say, unusual business model we have here at Cavalry. It’s just that I have to make sure you really are mentally disturbed before I release you into the general population.” Hamilton’s teeth were sharp and white, making his smile like a shark’s. His hand slid down from Dean’s shoulder, groping handfuls of flesh.

“Freak!” Dean squirmed, twisting away from the painful grip that was turning intimate and exploratory. “I survived Hell, asshat. Do your worst.”

“I intend to,” Hamilton said, and the lights went out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TO BE CONTINUED! I know, this makes me officially the lamest friend ever, but I wanted to be sure to post something before 5pm Greenwich and so there you go. MORE SOON. Yeah, I made it a wee crossovery. It's my first time! And I was thinking "Who would Ash like to see Dean with?" and Hammy boy came up first!


	2. Conjugal Visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, about a ~~million years~~ year ago, I wrote an SPN fic for Ash for her birthday and promised that I would continue it "real soon".
> 
> Ha ha ha. I'm so cute sometimes.
> 
> Er, by which I mean: happy (late) birthday, Ash! Here's that continuation I promised!

Getting admitted into a suspicious, magically warded nut-house just to find out what was going on might have been the stupidest plan Dean had ever had.

It took a lot to break Dean Winchester. The fact was, he knew exactly how much it took, and withstanding it again was exhausting. It was worse, knowing you’d broken before, knowing the peace of that acceptance. And it wasn’t like he was being asked to betray anyone or anything – the bastard just wanted to drive him nuts.

The worst was when he’d cut pieces off of Dean. Leave him a few days minus a hand or a foot or an ear. Dean screamed and begged – it wasn’t like this bullshit case was worth losing a limb – but Hamilton didn’t listen, he just calmly cut away and left him crying and feeling lost and helpless.

Then the fucker would come back a few days later with some mysterious cloaked figure who would chant some mumbo-jumbo and glue his hand back on again.

One time, Hamilton had smiled and told him it wasn’t his hand, but someone else’s. Dean had laughed and said, “Good, it’ll be nice to have someone else touching my dick.”

Which really hadn’t been the right thing to say.

So, Dean had a little pow-wow with himself after Hamilton left him all sore and covered in demon spunk. The bastard had said he wanted to drive Dean crazy, so Dean would act crazy before he really was. He went with the classics: rhythmic rocking, mumbling, random laughter.

It was a little too easy to get into. The rocking kinda helped.

So, though Hamilton still messed with him and kept him locked in the boring-ass room to contemplate going mad, after a few days, he let him out into the ‘general population’ which had sounded like a real break, but actually sucked. The general population, obviously, were wackos, as liable to wet themselves as talk to you. Dean wondered if this hadn’t been Hamilton’s plan all along – get him to the point where he was almost cracking, then show him what cracked looked like to scare the fuck out of him.

It was working. In particular, he noticed the lobotomy scars. Something told him this hospital wasn’t exactly operating on current medical practices.

He hadn’t found out shit, other than the staff were obviously all demons, and Hamilton wasn’t even the one in charge. He was some sort of demonic case worker and driving Dean insane was just his job.

The bastard did love his job.

So it went… a few hours walking around a large, featureless room with the other crazies, trying to surreptitiously feel out allies, and then endless time in his cell, waiting for torture.

The cell door opened, and Dean sighed, too exhausted to even bother acting nuts.

“Dean.”

Sam stood there, looking around awkwardly.

“Sam!” Dean jumped to his feet. Sam flinched as he approached, and Dean looked down at himself, unsure how crazy he looked in his paper gown.

“You’re getting me out of here, right?”

The guard behind Sam pushed him forward with a hard shove that obviously pissed Sam off and slammed the door.

“Oh fuck. No, Sammy – they don’t have you, too.” Dean heard the panic in his voice. He gripped his brother’s arms, tried to look behind him at the door.

Sam walked him back to the cot and sat him down. “Relax. I’m ‘visiting’. Took me forever to get permission.”

“Tell me you’ve got something, Sammy, because I’ve got jack.”

“Uh, I’ve got a suspicion this was a terrible plan, and they’re as impervious to government inspections as they were to break-ins.” Sam leaned close. Dean tried not to wince away – he hadn’t been having too much fun with close contact lately. Sam’s lips moved gently against his ear. “I think we can be pretty sure they’re listening in on us.”

Dean scooted back. “They let me out with the other patients, but they’re all too scared to talk. There’s some dude who thinks he’s a vampire, keeps moaning about some Angel and wishing he was here instead. I’d gank him just to shut him up, but the sharpest object in here is my wit, and it’s not doing so good, lately.”

“Hey,” Sam said, touching his arm. “It’s okay. We’ll figure something out.” He scooted closer, running his hand up Dean’s side, and leaned in.

“Woah woah. Put the brakes on, Sammy. Probably being watched, remember?”

Sam sighed. “It’s been three weeks, Dean. I miss you, touching you.”

“Girl,” said Dean, automatically. “Three weeks? That’s it? Fuck, these guys are good.” Dean’s shoulders sagged. Sam pulled him back against his solid bulk and kissed the side of his neck. “Dude,” Dean said, shifting, “can I tell you how not in the mood I am?”

Sam made a whiney noise. His hand moved down to Dean’s crotch, holding him to keep him from scooting away again. “I only got in because I told them I wanted a conjugal visit.”

Dean half-twisted to face his brother. “You are shitting me.”

“Don’t knock it, it worked.”

“How did you… I mean, you actually said that? Do they know we’re, uh…” Dean glanced up at the little black circle of the security camera in the ceiling.

“Brothers?” Sam provided with a slight shrug. “Yeah. I think that’s why they said okay. It was fucked up enough for them.”

“That is really fucked up,” Dean said. Sam pressed the side of his hand between Dean’s legs. “And you’re really hot for this, aren’t you?”

Sam half-smiled. “It’s been three weeks.”

“You seriously can’t stand to go without getting laid for three weeks?”

Sam gave him a look like Dean was obviously mental for suggesting anyone could go that long.

Dean thought about the invasive touches, the hard and painful fucks he’d endured in that very room. He didn’t want Sammy to be a part of that. He didn’t want his memories of torture and Sam’s love to get mixed together. The more he thought about it, the more cold and chilled he became, the more he wanted to move away from Sam, whose hard erection was digging into his hip. Dean wriggled like a kid trying to get out of a car seat. “Sam… really, lay off.”

Sam sighed. “Dean? I don’t know when we’re going to get to be together again, and if we stop, they could decide to just throw me out of the cell. Come on. It’s not like you don’t like it.”

Dean felt a nasty, sharp hit of shameful arousal, because he did like it, and he was ashamed of liking it, and that sort of made it better and worse at the same time. It was the sheer wrongness of it all that got him hard, and with his delicate mental state, suddenly everything seemed freshly wrong, like the first time he’d slipped his tongue between his little brother’s lips and felt so breathlessly aroused he couldn’t stop.

Sam rolled him over and started dry-humping, pushing the flimsy paper hospital gown up and off. Dean wasn’t sorry to see it go – he felt more like himself, more dignified, naked. The roughness of Sam’s jeans on his bare cock, however, was something else. He hissed and pushed Sam’s chest to get him up.

Sam kneeled up, smiling, his hair hanging in his face, and made quick work of unbuckling and unzipping. Sam looked good, his shirt rucked up and his pants shoved down, one hand on his cock and the other sliding up the back of Dean’s thigh. Dean could almost forget how much he didn’t want this. And then Sam’s thumb brushed his hole and Sam’s expression darkened. Dean closed his eyes. He wanted to sink through the fucking cot and out of the room. Sam had felt hat had been done to Dean, what he should never have known about. Dean felt his body tense. “Sammy,” he said.

Sam thrust into him hard and set up an immediate, punishing pace, his face was a mask. Dean grabbed onto him, tried to pull him close. Sam pushed him down flat to the bed in response, one hand heavy in the center of Dean’s chest.

And shit if it didn’t feel good, Sammy wasn’t letting him relax, wasn’t letting up at all, just hammering into his sweet spot like it would punish him, and it did, but it also made Dean see sparks. And when Sam wrapped one meaty hand around his dick and gave it two savage tugs, he popped like a Champaign cork. Spunk hit Sam in the chin, and he grunted, thrusting hard twice more and digging in as he unloaded deep in his brother’s body.

Then Sam was still, still in him, braced on his arms, panting from the exertion.

“Sammy?” Dean said.

Sam’s shoulders lowered a bit, his head hanging. He looked up and wiped his chin with the back of his hand. “I’m going to get you out of here,” he said.

Dean lifted himself up, hooked an arm around Sam’s shoulder and tried to kiss his brother, but Sam turned away at the last minute.

The door opened. Hamilton stood there, grinning. “Isn’t that pretty? I could sell pictures of that. Come on, Winchester – your time is up.”

Sam clung tight to Dean then, and Dean was stupidly grateful for the protective hug. “Would you give me a minute?”

“Yes,” Hamilton said, hands clasped in front of him, “because we care so much about your dignity.”

“Get me out of here, Sammy,” Dean hissed.

Sam just gave him a sad glance, which he supposed was intended to be reassuring, and pulled out. They both hissed at the sensation, and Dean fumbled for his paper gown while Sam zipped up, both of them looking elsewhere while the demon laughed.


End file.
